Sealing a Promise
by MelodiousVengeance
Summary: "He was drawn to the scene, like he was floating above it all and it wasn't just their blood that was unifying. Like a leaf breaking the tranquil surface of a pond, Bash's fixed gaze was broken when the last drop fell," A little in-depth look into Bash's head during the final scene of "Sacrifice".


**A/N: Guess who? Yup, Vengeance here and of course I had to come up with a little introspective for the final scene between Bash and Mary. It was just too magical to deny it a little more of an in-depth analysis. I hope you enjoy this little journey into Bash's beautiful mind.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Reign.**

The heartache Bash felt helped to lessen the pain in his hand as he gazed at the velvet crimson of his blood lying upon the fresh earth of Isabelle's grave. He wasn't sure how he was meant to move on from this. It would seem that he was destined to lose everyone in his family. His mother had run away for fear of prosecution Francis now hated him for attempting to save his life and now Isabelle was gone. If he was being honest, he wasn't even sure if he would ever see the baby again. He knew, it was too dangerous to actually go and visit, it would look too suspicious. It was safer for him and the baby if the baby grew up believing herself to be an orphan.

A determined sigh coming from Mary was the first thing Bash found himself aware of as he broke through the icy cover of his thoughts. There was a question on his face as he turned to look at her, and it took him a moment to realize that Mary was gently tugging at the small knife in his hand. Once he realized what she was doing, his fingers slowly loosened and allowed her to grip the knife in her own hand.

Bash couldn't quite believe it. Just last night Mary had practically run from him in fear, not that he could truly blame her. She had been marked for death with the very medallion he had hung outside the tent in order to prevent anymore human bloodshed. But now her face held only determination and that expression of kind caring that she always held. That Bash was always so drawn to, perhaps because of the overall lack of that expression turned towards him as he was growing up.

He watched on as she brought the knife to her hand. He inhaled rather sharply in the cold air and quickly let it out, the treacherous smoke of cool autumn puffing from his mouth as she too took a breath and pulled the knife through her clenched hand. She gave a small noise in pain and Bash couldn't help but wish he would have been able to swallow the sound with a kiss. Some way to show her how much this truly meant to him, instead the best he could do was follow her movements, as she held her hand over the grave as he had and curled her fingers into her palm and her blood dripped from her fingers, joining his in what felt like one of the most intimate moments he had ever shared with any woman.

It felt like she had managed to cast some sort of spell on her. He was drawn to the scene, like he was floating above it all and it wasn't just their blood that was unifying. Like a leaf breaking the tranquil surface of a pond, Bash's fixed gaze was broken when the last drop fell, his attention returning to Mary.

The first thing he did was remove the knife from her hand. It reminded him of the fact that there was blood on her hands, both hypothetically and literally, and every single drop was in one way or another, his fault. He couldn't even bring it upon himself to replace it in the sheath at his hip, not before he managed to remove every and all traces of her pure blood, instead he bend over and dropped it to the ground, watching it fall next to one of the last surviving summer flowers as he uttered her name.

As he stood Mary made another light noise, not one of pain, so much as it sounded like discomfort as she curled her fingers, forming a cup with her hand to hold whatever blood still flowed from her wound. Almost completely forgetting of his own hand Bash reached into his pocket, removing a piece of cloth. "I've thought about what you said," he told her as he unfolded the cloth, only remembering that he had cut his own hand when he noticed the red and burgundy on his fingers, a mixture of dried blood and a little still flowing.

He let out a shaky breath, as he prepared himself for what he was about to say. He had thought about this long and hard, and he knew what he needed to say, but was weary of the words. "I never wanted a crown," he told her as he laid the cloth across her hand, as gently as he could. He worked with skilled fingers as he made sure the wound was covered and that the makeshift bandage would staunch the blood. "But if that's my fate, I'll accept it. I'll learn to wear it," he found his confidence rising as he spoke, the words coming with much more ease than he had expected them to.

"But you need to know something," he told her as he tied a knot in the cloth, securing it into place. Feeling bold he held her small hand in both of his, the contact helping to ease his mind. He looked at her straight in the eye, making sure he had her full attention before he spoke again. Just as she had been kind with him this morning, he knew he had to make sure that he was being clear. She had to understand what he was trying to tell her. "I'm not Francis," a fact that he was more than aware of, and he was sure she was as well, but nevertheless he continued. "My duty will never be to some country, some land, some throne. If I'm married to you, you'll be my family; I'll be in it for you, but only you-" He hoped she understood what he was trying to say.

She had been right to speak of how much family meant to him. She knew it very well, proving the lengths he would go to for Francis, for his cousin. He wished there was another way to say this, but he knew she wasn't ready. She wasn't ready to hear the three words he knew would reside in his heart until she was. He shifted to grip her hand more securely; afraid she would run away as he attempted to finish his speech. "-and if that's not what proper King's do-" Bash was cut short. He wasn't quite sure what he had been planning to say after that because Mary's small hand raised to rest on his chest, just beside his heart stopping him.

He searched her face for some sort of indication as to why she had stopped him. The only thing he could find there was the thing of his dreams. Love. The next thing Bash knew, Mary was rising on her tip toes and he was lowering his head, the lips meeting in a sweet kiss. It was magic. Bash wrapped one arm around her, bringing her closer and wrapping her in his cloak, his other bloodied hand coming to rest on her cheek, though neither seemed to notice.

The kiss warmed his whole body with a gentle glow, not a fiery passion that would lead to his bed. This kiss was far more than that; it was the sealing of a promise. A promise to listen and stand beside each other, just as Mary embraced a part of Bash in helping to mark Isabelle's grave, and just as Bash agreed to throw away his freedom and take on the title and targets of being king.


End file.
